


Ineffable Husbands Drabbles - Good Omens

by MyWordsMyChoice



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley finds out about THAT exchange with Gabriel, M/M, Mild Gore, Other, Post-Canon, TW: Eating Disorder, and is not amused, but better safe than sorry, no beta we discorporate like angels, or demons, tw may be overly cautious on my part
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-07-10 08:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19902802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyWordsMyChoice/pseuds/MyWordsMyChoice
Summary: A collection of drabbles, ficlets and whatever else my post-Good Omens brain may put forth about Aziraphale and Crowley.Chapter 4: She’d hardly known what to expect on reaching the bookshop, besides a few choice words of course, but they seemed much less appealing when she actually got there. Mr Aziraphale was just standing there on the pavement, all alone. And he didn’t look very well at all.





	1. Mirror - Part 1

They were nothing words, Aziraphale insisted to the mirror that had neither existed nor needed to before the nopocalypse. Just nothing words to be thrown away, cast out, not taken to heart and kept there. The mirror never replied. Had it been able to, it would have said it was tired of being frantically miracled out of existence whenever Crowley swaggered into the bookshop.  
  
Four weeks after the nopocalypse, Aziraphale found himself ambushed. Crowley grasped his hands part way through their self-conscious little tug at the hem of his waistcoat and hissed at him - _what’s going on?!_ Aziraphale blurted it out. Those desperate hours waiting for Gabriel, how the Archangel carried on jogging while his gasped warnings about prophecies and the apocalypse and there being no need for war fell unseen, unheard like tears in rain.  
  
_“And?!”_ Crowley demanded. Aziraphale’s hands twitched and Crowley loosened his grip. Their fingers entwined and Aziraphale confessed the three words he couldn’t seem to shake off now that the apocalypse wasn’t pressing up against them.  
  
_Lose the gut._  
  
For one moment and one moment only, an intolerable weight lifted from his chest. The next moment, Crowley had put his fist through the mirror.


	2. Mirror - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale’s mouth snapped shut on whatever admonishment he was about to deliver and Crowley watched an all too familiar shadow pass over his face. It had a name now, that shadow, and it was Gabriel.

_“Crowley!”_  
  
Most of Crowley’s fingers were hanging off but by sheer force of will, he jabbed one towards the air in front of Aziraphale’s nose.  
  
“Don’t start.”  
  
Aziraphale’s mouth snapped shut on whatever admonishment he was about to deliver, and Crowley watched an all too familiar shadow pass over his face. It had a name now, that shadow, and it was Gabriel.  
  
Something burning, something _dangerous_ uncoiled in his gut as he rampaged around his own memories of the past few weeks. Invitations to lunch declined, so many of them, dessert spoons laid aside after only one or two mouthfuls. And, Crowley thought, his fist clenching as best it could, outright _diving_ into a side street to avoid some sushi chef who was just walking to work and minding his own damn business.  
  
And the shadow of Gabriel ever present on Aziraphale’s face. Gabriel. Always fucking _Gabriel._  
  
“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s voice had gone sharp, his fingers hard at Crowley’s wrist. “Crowley, your hand!”  
  
Crowley glanced down at the ruined flesh and the faint curls of steam twisting upwards from where his blood stained the carpet. Aziraphale huffed, and that was the only warning Crowley got before holy light seared into his wounds. If he screamed, he couldn’t hear himself over the primal roar of his own power, flailing and writhing against Aziraphale’s. Bones knitted together, glass shards dissolved to nothing and burning, stinging flesh grew in the spaces left behind.  
  
Aziraphale twisted a finger and the holy light withdrew. Crowley’s voice felt raw in his throat.  
  
“That bloody hurt!”  
  
“Then do try not to injure yourself beyond the scope of a human first aid kit,” Aziraphale replied coldly, turning back to the remains of the mirror. He passed his hand casually through the air and Crowley’s blood vanished from his fingertips. Another gesture and it was gone from the carpet. “I doubt Hell will be particularly willing to provide you with a new body.”  
  
“Oh, I wouldn’t need to go to Hell, angel,” Crowley jostled past Aziraphale and planted himself between his angel and the mirror, grinding the broken glass to dust beneath his heels. “I’d just go to your old boss – he can sew a poisonous little idea in my head and the new body will sort itself out!”  
  
When Aziraphale’s face crumbled in pain, time stopped. Or maybe it was just Crowley’s heart.


	3. Mirror - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley had no direction, no destination, nothing except a vague idea that he might drive to the end of the universe and then keep going.

Aziraphale’s shattered expression reformed into a terrible blankness before collapsing again. Crowley thought to apologise, beg, plead, say anything that would put light back in his angel’s eyes, but why would Aziraphale believe him, why would he ever trust him, when he’d just proved he was cruel as any Archangel? Once, twice, three times Aziraphale’s lips parted and closed to... do what? Weep? Tell him to get out, never come back?  
  
“Crowley -”  
  
“Don’t,” Crowley forced the word out past the pressure in his throat, raising his newly healed hand between them. The bookshop seemed to roll under his feet and he grabbed at the mirror frame to steady himself. Aziraphale’s lips parted again but Crowley didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to be cast out _again_.  
  
_“Please_ , angel. _Don’t!”_  
  
He thought he was going to take a step towards Aziraphale, and he did, then another and another and another until he was running. His hand caught a teetering stack of books as he lurched past, and Aziraphale cried out when they crashed down on each other.  
  
_“Crowley!”_  
  
He had no direction, no destination when he roared away in the Bentley, Aziraphale growing tinier and tinier and _lonelier_ in his rear view mirror, nothing except a vague idea that he might drive to the end of the universe and then keep going. Keep going until the car imploded and himself with it. Or until Aziraphale’s pain stopped ringing in his ears.


	4. Mirror - Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’d hardly known what to expect on reaching the bookshop, besides a few choice words of course, but they seemed much less appealing when she actually got there. Mr Aziraphale was just standing there on the pavement, all alone. And he didn’t look very well at all.

_Don’t leave. Don’t leave. Don’t leave._  
  
The words are raw and bleeding, terrified of the pale wintry sunlight, and if Soho felt them beyond a brief ripple of melancholy, it paid about as much attention as it did to the figure in cream and white standing preternaturally still on the pavement outside that bookshop that hardly ever opened. Locals recognised him as the bookshop’s owner and let him be; it was only eccentric old Mr Fell, harmless enough until you tried to buy a book off him. Harried commuters grumbled their way around him, cursing him for another gormless tourist, and when he was still standing there in the rain, eyes closed and soaked to the skin by the time they made their return journey – well. Soho had seen stranger things than that, and they had homes and bars and shops and nightclubs to get to.  
  
Marjorie Potts – Madame Tracy, depending on who you asked - had a bungalow outside of London to get to, or at least she would have just as soon as she and Shadwell could agree on a location. _Agree on anything at all really_ , she was thinking when the wave hit her like a hammer blow; _don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave._  
  
Her grip on her mug faltered and it fell to the carpet, tepid tea splashing everywhere. Shadwell pulled his slippered feet backwards and roared at her.  
  
“What’s the matter with ye, woman?”  
  
_Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave._  
  
Marjorie shook her head, sudden tears streaming down her face. In spite of the words pounding at her, in spite of Shadwell’s drunken complaining, she got up and left the miserable old bugger in front of the telly, faintly relieved that he’d had too much larger to bother following. She paused a moment by the front door, leaned against the brickwork to catch her breath. The words clawed and burned in a way that... was not human. Too vast, too old, too _devastated_ to be human and yet, it was... familiar. Too familiar by far.  
  
“Sorry, Mr Aziraphale,” she said through gritted teeth, as she tottered her way towards the tube station and the one person most likely to be responsible. “This may be your idea of _extremely flexible_ but it isn’t mine. _It isn’t mine.”_ Her mind took up the mantra and flung it back at the waves crashing around her. _This is not mine. This is not mine. THIS IS NOT MINE!_  
  
She’d hardly known what to expect on reaching the bookshop, besides a few choice words of course, but they seemed much less appealing when she actually got there. Mr Aziraphale was just standing there on the pavement, all alone. And he didn’t look very well at all.


End file.
